When Tony kisses him on the battlefield, it’s hot and fast. Explosions, a shuddering earth, alien warships whizzing near enough to ruffle their hair, and Tony’s tongue, easing its way into his mouth before he even knows what’s happening—Steve struggles at first, can’t tell the difference between this hand and the thousand other claws trying to grab him—but the mouth against his is warm and wet, and it’s not even a kiss, really, the way Tony’s arm around his waist, pulling him so close there’s no room to breathe.
His armor clanks against Steve’s shield, which is still clenched tightly in his fist—he hadn’t even realized how tightly he was holding it—and he can feel Tony’s irritation as he tries different angles with that slick, slick tongue of his, trying to find the one in which Steve has the least control.
Tony is taller than him in the suit. That shouldn’t turn Steve on nearly as it does—he’s not used to feeling like this around Tony, weaker than him, and it reminds him of how it used to be, so many years ago. He wonders how it would feel, letting Tony touch him before the serum. He’d be a rag doll—small, weak, completely at Tony’s mercy. Christ.
“Mm,” Tony murmurs, as he finally hits home.
“Tony,” Steve whispers, but it’s too late; he’s melting against him, like a damsel in distress, letting himself be bent back, swept off his feet. He can feel the grin on Tony’s face even though his eyes have fluttered shut.
* * *
When Tony kisses him in a bar, it’s wet. Pulsating beats, flashing red lights, the clink of glasses and the dull roar of a plastered bachelorette party—Tony’s already had one too many drinks—or, more accurately, five too many—and he’s not nearly as coordinated as it usual. His tongue slides around Steve’s mouth, licking aimlessly, running over the tops of his teeth.
He shifts in his stool so he can pull him closer. Steve makes a strangled noise when Tony sucks on his tongue.
“Not here,” he hisses, pulling away and straightening his collar. His eyes flicker over the rest of the patrons, but they’re all too drunk to care; most of them are watching the karaoke stage, which is currently taken by a teetering redhead belting Haddaway and winking at the bartender.
“Yes, here.” Tony seizes his tie and pulling him closer. “God, Steve, you feel so good. Kiss me,” he murmurs, and Steve can’t resist the edge in his voice, the intoxication, the way Tony smells like the alcohol that no longer has any effect on him. He lets Tony tug him forward, and before he knows it, his face is blushing red and he’s smack on the center of Tony’s lap. Straddling him. He’s a full head taller than Tony this way.
“Fuck,” Tony moans, licking across the tendons straining in Steve’s neck. “You’re so fucking hot. I want to fuck you,” he adds frankly. “I want to lay you right here, on this bar. Would you like that?” He smiles dazedly. “You’d beg, wouldn’t you—you’d beg for me? I can imagine it,” he purrs. “You’d be so red—you’re always red—and your legs would be so wide, God, you’d let me fuck you and you’d scream. I’d make you.”
Steve can’t help the way he gasps, ever so slightly, as Tony nips at the skin above his collarbone. “You like that.” It’s a statement. “Do you?” He bites again and Steve moans, nods helplessly, knows that it’ll be there when he looks into the mirror the next morning.
“I like it,” he says, and his voice reaches an embarrassing pitch. “God, Tony—God, I like that.”
“I know,” he says smugly, sucking a bruise into the skin just above his collar. “And you’ll like it tomorrow, too.”
The girl on the stage nods once, heavily, and finishes with a final “What is love?” and a smash of her empty glass on the floor. The bar erupts into cheers.
* * *
When Tony kisses him at night, it’s desperate. Snatches of Casablanca on the television, flickering black and white, the mug of cocoa on the table—all cease to exist as Tony sidles up to him, and, without any warning, wraps a hand around the base of his spine. He doesn’t bother with any gentleness and sweet nothings—he just forces his mouth against Steve’s, and, without a breath of air between then, kisses him.
Steve debates saying something, but Tony’s hand creeps up his chest and the idea loses all merit. Any thoughts of anything but Tony’s hot skin above him vanish as Tony tugs Steve’s nightshirt off, his following it to the floor, and pushes him down against the sofa cushions, pressing in between Steve’s legs.
“Christ, Steve,” Tony hisses, in between kisses, as he works his way down Steve’s chest. “I’ve been thinking of this all day.” He licks Steve’s nipple—one quick flick sends Steve reeling, God, he’s still not used to this—and starts on the other. “In the lab—it’s so boring down there without you, fuck, I’ve been waiting.” He’s not lying; Steve can feel it between his legs. “This body,” he adds, “is the thing that keeps me going. How does that make you feel?”
Steve can’t think of an answer. He’s too busy grinding against Tony, naked muscle on slick skin, trying to find some purchase. Tony slides one hand down between his legs and squeezes his cock through his pajama bottoms. God, who bought these for him?—Coulson, Natasha?—bet they didn’t imagine this in, oh, on this couch, in this place, Christ—
“Tell me something,” Tony pants, sinking one finger into the elastic band of the waist and tugging it down to Steve’s knees.
“Anything,” Steve moans, reaching down to palm himself. He’s hard and already wet through his underwear, and this last fact catches Tony’s attention; he sinks down, hot breath against Steve’s skin, and licks one obscene stripe down his erection. His mind explodes into static for one second and he thrusts against Tony’s mouth.
“Do you ever think of me?” Tony asks, voice muffled through the cloth. “When you’re doing this, you mean—when you’re jerking off, when you’re—fuck, yeah—in the shower, when you’re in bed and I’m on a trip—tell me, Steve, how do you—oh—how do you imagine me?”
Steve gasps when Tony’s fingers creep underneath his ass, rub against his crack through his clothes. They brush his opening, probe, gently, straining the fabric, and his entire body contorts, spine arches, cheeks burst with color. God, it’s not fair, how Tony can read him like a book, play him like a violin—
“Tell me,” Tony hisses, biting the knob of Steve’s hip bone and working another digit against his hole.
“God,” Steve groans, and the sounds spew from his mouth before he can stop them. “I think—I think of your tongue,” he gasps. “Your tongue in my ass, Jesus, Tony, it feels so good, so deep—wet, and your hands around my cock—no, your mouth there, too, suck me off, and I’d come on you—God, your face, you everywhere, and just—yes,” he breathes. “You’d try to lick it off—suck it out of my ass—fuck, Tony!”
Tony pulls his mouth from the head of Steve’s cock with a pop. “Christ,” he whispers, for lack of anything better to say, and tosses his soiled underwear to the floor. “Tell me what you want.”
“Fuck me,” Steve moans, spreading his knees apart around Tony’s head. “Fuck me into the sofa.” He can feel his cock dripping precome over Tony’s lips, his face, eyes dark with lust and desire and something that Steve wants, so badly, right there—fuck, he hardly knows what he’s thinking.
Tony rears up, falling back onto his heels, and unbuckles his belt with two experienced clicks. The buttons fall away and he shoves his jeans down to his knees.
“Jesus, Steve,” he murmurs, running his hands across Steve’s trembling thighs; “I didn’t know you could be like this.”
Steve muffles a whimper as Tony’s knuckles brush his cock. He’s on a hair trigger now, God, and he can hardly think for anticipation. He knows, he knows, it’s going to feel—it’s going to feel so—
“We don’t have any condoms in here.” Tony’s voice is rough.
“Fuck it,” Steve moans, and almost hates himself for cursing—it’s not right, there are better words, he always says, but now—now it doesn’t matter, he’d say anything, he’d denounce all that he loves, just if Tony could please get on with it—“we don’t need them—oh, Tony, please—” Steve’s eyes flutter open suddenly. “Lube. We don’t have—”
The smirk drips across Tony’s face before he can finish the sentence. “I come prepared,” he says, and leans across Steve as he pops open the cap and smears it over his fingers. “Wider,” he whispers, and his fingers are almost enough to make Steve come right there—they presses in again, slightly, and he whimpers when they enter him—God, Tony’s done this a thousand times before but never like this. He feels dirty, filthy, and it’s wonderful.
“What if somebody hears—oh—us?” Steve moans and Tony bites the skin of his shoulder in encouragement. “We’ll be—we’ll be in trouble.”
“So we can stop,” Tony mutters, a grin in his mouth, and adds another finger, twisting it so Steve can’t help but cry out. “You’re right, Steve, trouble is the last thing I want.” He licks the sweat pooling under his Adam’s apple and pulls his legs wider. “Let’s go to bed like good little—”
“Shut up,” Steve growls, and has to force himself not to fuck himself on Tony’s fingers as they slowly slide out. “Fuck, Tony—I’m ready. Now, now.” He reaches down and touches his entrance, just a little, just to feel something there—maybe it’s a feeble attempt to prove to Tony that he really is ready. He wants it like he never has—sex has been a thing between them for a while, but it’s casual, happy, littered with kisses and little moans—nothing like this.
Tony slams inside of him and Steve groans shamelessly. He pushes back up against him, rocks with his cock, lets himself be pounded against the sofa cushions. Tony grinds against him as he fucks him, and yes Steve can hear his grunts underneath his moans as he leans forward, pushing his legs wider apart, sliding himself deeper into Steve, in and out, faster and faster—it’s hot and slick and fast and rough and Steve Rogers knows that he has never, ever in his life, had it like this before—
“Oh,” is the only sound he can make as he comes.
* * *
When Tony kisses him in the morning, it’s slow. Rumpled sheets, morning breath, bodies tangled in blankets bathed in white morning-light. Steve doesn’t even open his eyes, but he knows Tony’s awake. He tries to be quiet, but Steve can feel the way the mattress creaks under his weight when he first twitches awake—always a shudder, like he’s just snapped out of a nightmare—and his heart breaks a little, at that, the way Tony Stark sees things in his sleep.
He turns, trying to be gentle, but Steve knows. He can feel Tony’s warm breath on his face and can see the picture in his mind—half-lidded eyes blurred with sleep, hair sticking at all helpless angles, mouth quirked slightly as he watches him. Steve would never admit it, but he likes Tony’s gaze. It validates something, somehow—it proves that all of it is not a game. It’s not a lie.
Tony tries to kiss him awake, and Steve’s good at pretending. He groans slightly, like he’s still tired, stretches to the tips of his fingers, and lets Tony press against his mouth for a while before returning the kiss.
He widens his lips. Just a little, but it’s enough for Tony; he squirms closer and nips Steve's bottom lip.
Steve moans into Tony’s mouth when he reaches over and slides a hand over the back of his neck—almost hums, because there’s no pressure, just his lips against Tony’s.
It’s still early; sunrise is still spilling through the wispy curtains, and Steve pulls away, slowly, rubbing a comforting thumb into Tony’s hip. The mattress creaks as Steve sits up and yanks the curtains open.
“Fuck,” Tony murmurs, falling back and pulling a pillow over his head.
“Good morning,” he’ll say, and he’ll open his eyes and smile at Tony Stark.